Wild Wild West 1. The Night of the Unsolved Mysteries

**The Night of the Unsolved Mysteries**  
A Wild Wild West story  
By Deana

Tag to the episode, 'Lord of Limbo'. It's one of my favorite episodes, but there were a lot of plot holes, so I decided to explain them!

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As soon as Colonel Falk left, Artie sat next to Jim, plopping his head back against the couch. "What a rough couple of days. I'm exhausted," he said.

"You look it," said Jim. "Going to bed early?"

"I should, the way I feel," Artie said, around a huge yawn. "But I don't know if I'll be able to sleep."

"Why not?"

Artie sighed, and seemed like he didn't know where to begin. "When I was in limbo," he said, with a shrug. "I wasn't myself."

Jim crossed his arms. "You certainly weren't!"

"After we came back, a lot of what happened seemed distant, like a dream," Artie continued. "But the more I think about it, the more I remember." He looked at Jim. "Jack Maitland was my great-grandfather."

Jim sat up, having not expected that. "You're kidding!"

Artie shook his head. "No...and I'm the spitting image of him."

"That's incredible," said Jim. "So we really _were_ in the past…it wasn't just some trick."

Artie nodded.

"I was wondering why you thought you were someone else, while I was still me," said Jim.

"After I disappeared from the show," said Artie. "I was in blackness, surrounded by mist, like in the room of Vautrain's house. I was there for a long time...probably because he didn't know what to do with me, considering that he'd originally wanted to kidnap _you_. He must've not planned to bring me back to reality, so he sent me into the past to live my great-grandfather's life."

"How did he know who your ancestors were?" Jim challenged.

Artie shrugged. "I haven't been able to figure that one out either. For that matter, how did he figure out who _you_ were? He was half-dead at the time, five years ago…you didn't give him your name…I imagine that once he decided to get revenge on you and found out who you were, he looked into both of our lives and learned who _knows_ what."

Jim nodded.

"Either way," said Artie. "After he dropped me into the past, I was there the whole time, until you showed up. I really had no idea who you were."

Jim nodded. "I noticed that."

Artemus smiled slightly, before it vanished and he covered his eyes with one hand. "I can't believe that I tried to duel you to the death..."

Jim reached over and nudged his arm. "Forget about that, Artie. Every time someone tries to pit us against each other, it never succeeds, and it never will: it's not meant to."

Artie lowered his hand and looked at him. "Well...that's profound, especially for you, Jim."

Jim laughed.

"Now if only you could explain how I had a bullet in me in the past, but not in the present...and how I'm alive right now," Artie said.

Jim was quiet for a minute, remembering Artemus dying in his arms.

Now it was Artie's turn to reach out to his friend. "Sorry, Jim, I shouldn't've brought that up."

Jim sighed before standing and going over to the cabinet on the far wall. He grabbed the decanter of brandy and brought it back to the couch, pouring a generous amount into two glasses and handing one to his friend.

They drank it in silence for a minute, until Jim spoke again. "I can't explain that, Artie. Maybe it's because it really was your great-grandfather, and your mind was simply inhabiting his body."

"Except that I didn't _have_ my own mind...or I would've known you," said Artie.

"Plus, you spoke with an accent…" said Jim. "Something that sounded half English and half southern."

Artie nodded. "I know. Later, though, like I said to you, I felt like we'd done all that before…fought together…"

Jim nodded back. "Which was _your_ mind coming to the surface."

Artie was silent for a few seconds. "Jim…my great-grandfather didn't take that bullet. He lived to be eighty-five. He wasn't killed in a duel."

Jim's eyes suddenly opened wider. "We didn't change history?" His face suddenly brightened. "That must mean that you weren't dead after all...just unconscious."

Artemus held his tongue. He'd been dead. But if Jim felt better thinking otherwise, then he wouldn't dream of contradicting him. He suddenly thought of something else. "It still could've been my body that took that bullet. I felt the impact, felt the pain..." His hand unconsciously strayed to his midsection. "For whatever reason, injuries sustained while we were in limbo did not come back with us. Remember, Jim, when Vautrain's house was blasted just before we left—"

Jim put his glass on the table. "That's right, you hurt your shoulder."

Artie shook his head. "You have no idea. It was broken."

Jim's eyebrows raised.

Artie nodded. "Hurt as much as the bullet wound." He stared at the brandy that remained in his glass, swirling it around in his left hand...the arm with the 'broken' shoulder.

"And you feel nothing from either place?" Jim said, gesturing first to Artie's midsection and then to his arm.

"Well, that's the funny thing," said Artie, taking another drink and putting the glass down. "I didn't at first, both times that we returned to reality, but now, once in a while I get a twinge. It's probably not real, just me remembering what it felt like."

Jim shrugged, before shaking his head. "I guess we'll never know. But one thing's for sure...Vautrain is gone. There was no trace of him in that house, which means that he died in the past."

"Did he?" Artemus said.

"You don't think so?"

"What if he transported himself to another time?" Artie said. "He didn't need to be in that room in order to do it...he did it to me while we were at the show."

Jim was speechless for a second. "That's right, he did. Then we might see him again someday."

"I don't think he'll come after us, if that's what you're thinking," Artie said. "He let us go, in the end. He must've finally realized that his quest for revenge was unfounded. Maybe he _didn't_ transport himself away...when he found that he'd failed, he would've rather just die than continue living with no legs."

"It's possible," said Jim.

Artie sighed. "These mysteries will remain unsolved, Jim…we lived it, it's over, and we're alive and well. I suppose we should simply be thankful and not dwell on it."

"Here, here," said Jim. He picked up his glass of brandy, handed Artie his, and they clicked them together before drinking the rest.

Putting the empty glasses back down, they were quiet for a second, until Artie broke the silence with a yawn. He squirmed on the couch as if to get more comfortable, and Jim stood, taking the brandy back to the cabinet and the dirty glasses into the galley. When he returned, Artie was stretched out, fast asleep...his right hand resting right over where the bullet wound had been.

Jim looked away, chilled at the sight as he again remembered when Artie had 'died' in his arms. _He was unconscious, not dead, _he reminded himself, preferring to believe that theory instead.

Leaving the room, Jim went into Artie's compartment and pulled the blanket off his bed, bringing it back and covering his friend with it.

Artemus stirred slightly. "Jim?" he mumbled, sleepily, without opening his eyes.

"Everything's fine, Artie. Go to sleep."

Artie dropped right off again, saying nothing more.

Not tired yet himself, Jim went and retrieved a pack of cards and brought it back, sitting on the floor near the couch and using the coffee table to play solitaire, content to be in his friend's company, whether Artie was asleep or not…because by some miracle that they'd never be able to explain or understand, he was _alive_.

THE END


	2. The Night of the Burning Ashes

**The Night of the Burning Ashes**  
A Wild Wild West story  
By Deana

Here's my tag to the awesome 1st season episode, 'The Night of the Burning Diamond'! Enjoy!

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"Hey Artie," Jim called, walking into the main room of the train. "I want to go out. Coming?"

Artie glanced at him from where he sat at the table, with books and papers spread out before him. "Do you know what time it is, Jim?"

Jim nodded. "Come on, it's not that late if _you're_ still up. I'm sure even _you_ could find a pretty girl to dance with."

Artie didn't react to the quips, instead picking up a piece of paper with a sigh. "Jim."

The tone of his voice got Jim's attention, and he frowned. "What?"

"How do you feel?" Artie asked.

Jim blinked. "Feel? Fine, why?"

Artie got right to the point. "These are the notes and studies that Midas did on the serum from the burning diamonds. It's addictive."

Jim blinked. "Addictive?"

Artie nodded.

"So what do we do?" Jim asked, having never expected that. "I feel fine."

Artie shook his head. "Your burning desire—no pun intended—to go dancing is the first stage of withdrawal. Your metabolism has sped up in anticipation of getting more of the serum. You're wide awake and eager for activity, despite the late hour."

Jim nodded. "Okay…but _you_ don't look wide awake and eager for activity."

Artie sighed. "That's because I've already moved on to the second stage. You had more of the serum later during your fight with Midas, so it'll take longer for you."

Jim frowned. "And what happens during the second—"

Before Jim had a chance to finish his question, Artie suddenly closed his eyes with a wince and grabbed the edge of the table.

Alarmed, Jim grabbed him by the arm. "Artie!"

Artie gave a gasp, breathing heavily and gripping his chest with his other hand.

Jim tried to pull his friend out of the chair, intending to lay him on the couch, but Artie didn't let him.

"No," Artie said, breathlessly. "I have to…find…an antidote."

"What?" Jim exclaimed. "How are you supposed to do that? How many stages _are_ there?"

Artie tried to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as the pain passed. He rubbed the middle of his chest before dropping his hand and straightening up in the chair. "Quickly," he said, in answer to Jim's first question. "And four."

"Four?"

Artie nodded. "When we were under the influence of the serum, did you notice how fast your heart was beating?"

Jim shook his head.

"I did. According to these notes, our hearts were racing over three hundred beats per minute."

Jim was stunned. "Three hundred?!"

Artie nodded again. "When we felt the pain of the serum wearing off, it was our hearts' reaction to the sudden drop from three hundred to around two hundred. Once the serum wore off completely, our heart rates eventually went back to normal." He shook his head. "Midas didn't tell us everything. I can't even begin to tell you the danger that we were in. If large groups of people took this serum, there would definitely be a death rate." He sighed. "I can only hope that no damage was done to our hearts."

Jim said nothing, shocked.

Artie turned a page in the book before him, with another sigh.

"What happens in the other two withdrawal stages?" Jim asked.

"The third stage is fever…the fourth is convulsions and unconsciousness."

Jim couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Is there anything that I can do to help?" he asked, wondering how on earth Artie was going to find an antidote, nevermind try to do it while suffering the withdrawal. A rock formed in his stomach when he realized that Artie was already in the second stage…if he didn't find an antidote before falling into the fourth stage… "Artie," he said. "What do I do if—"

"If I fail before reaching the last stage?" Artie asked, knowing exactly what he was thinking. "I don't know, Jim. Midas reached it the first time that he tried the serum, and survived."

That was good to know, at least. "Where do you intend to start?" Jim asked.

Artie pointed to the book. "Right here. Midas already did…it appears that he was nearly finished." He stuffed the notes into the book, closed it, and stood.

Relieved to hear that, Jim followed him into the lab, watching as Artie started taking Midas' chemicals out of a box. "Artie…if you hadn't taken this stuff back with you…"

Artie looked at him. "I know." He sighed, knowing that just because Midas survived the withdrawal, didn't mean that everyone would. According to the notes, Midas had first tried the diamond serum two years ago, and had been five years younger than Jim was now, meaning that he'd been ten years younger than himself. If age played a part in the severity and outcome of the withdrawal, then Artie knew that he had the least chance of surviving it out of the three of them.

Jim watched Artie, seeing the deep thought and knowing that he wasn't telling him everything. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but had to lunge forward and grab Artie again when his friend suddenly closed his eyes and leaned against the table. Reaching out his leg, Jim hooked the nearby stool and dragged it over, sitting Artie on it.

The pain was awful, spreading through Artie's chest like tendrils, and he could feel each beat of his heart like a stabbing knife. It subsided gradually, and he reopened his eyes, finding Jim's worried face above him. "It's not so bad," he lied, with a half-grin.

Jim reluctantly let go of him. "I suppose I'll find out soon enough. How long do I have?"

"You had more of the serum what, two hours later?" asked Artie. "At least that long, I suppose, though you can't expect us both to react exactly the same."

Artie was right. It was two and a half hours later when Jim first felt the pain.

He'd been behind Artie, fetching something for him off a shelf when it hit. He managed to not make a sound, not wanting to distract Artie from his work. It didn't last long, and didn't hurt as much as he expected it to. He wondered if it would get worse as time went on, but refused to think about it as he brought Artie what he'd requested.

Artie, on the other hand, was having a difficult time. When the pain struck now, it never completely faded away; leaving a dull ache that was constant. It was two o'clock in the morning now, and he was exhausted.

Something suddenly touched his forehead, and Artie realized that he'd closed his eyes and leaned his head in his hand with his elbow on the table. He didn't remember doing it, and opened his eyes to see Jim looking at him.

Jim removed his hand from Artie's forehead. "Stage three," he said.

Artie sighed, though he was relieved to see that stage two had lasted for nearly four hours. If stage three lasted that long, then he had a good chance of finding the antidote before he reached stage four.

Giving no reply, he simply poured a few drops of what he hoped was the antidote onto a slide and looked at it through his microscope. The liquid didn't bind with the blood cells the way that he wanted them to, and he sat up with a sigh.

Jim watched as his friend blinked tiredly. "Maybe you should take a break."

Artie shook his head, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "There's no time." He looked up at Jim. "Why don't _you_ go to sleep? If I need you, I'll call you."

Jim shook his head. "Go to sleep? You're in stage three, Artie, I can't leave you." He suddenly had an idea. "I'll be right back."

Artie watched him go, before turning back to his work.

Jim came back a couple of minutes later with a towel, a bowl of water, and a piece of cloth. He wet the towel and wrung it out, before placing it against Artie's forehead. "Hold this," he said.

Artie hadn't expected it, and flinched from the coldness of the water. Before he could ask what Jim was doing, his friend had wrapped the cloth around the towel and his head, tying it in the back.

"If we try to keep the fever as low as possible, maybe it will lengthen stage three and delay the onset of stage four," Jim explained.

Artie nodded. "You could be right about that Jim, thanks."

Jim smiled, but it faded away when his friend suddenly closed his eyes with a wince. Artie's face paled, and he kept his eyes closed longer than the last time.

Jim could barely contain his worry, knowing that the pain was coming from his heart. It scared him more to know that it was happening to Artie, than the fact that it was happening to himself, too.

Artie opened his eyes and exhaled noisily, before picking up another vial of liquid.

Jim managed to hide his own pain from Artemus for almost two hours, stepping away from the table when he felt it starting. After an episode that lasted longer than the others, Jim turned back to the table to find Artie staring at him.

"When did it start?" Artie demanded.

Jim sighed, though he knew that it would've been impossible to hide it forever. "A couple of hours ago."

"You should've _told_ me!" Artie said, upset to hear that. "How bad is the pain?"

Jim came back around the table. "Not as bad as it seems to be for you." He suddenly remembered that when the pain struck them as the diamond serum wore off, the pain had been worse for Artie then, too.

Artie nodded. "I'm not surprised. You're younger."

"Can five years really make that much of a difference?" Jim asked.

Artie shrugged. "You're in better shape, making your heart healthier." He reached up and adjusted the wet towel that Jim had tied around his head.

Jim went over to him and untied it, taking it off and checking Artie's fever. "It's higher."

Artie sighed. "I figured it was."

Jim rewet the towel and replaced it, tying the cloth tighter to avoid it slipping down. "Do you know how close you are to finding the antidote?"

Artie nodded. "Close. I have the correct ingredients, the tricky part is finding the right combination."

Jim nodded. "You realize that you've been in stage three for two hours."

Artie nodded again. "I know."

"Do you think it'll last as long as stage two?"

Artie looked at him. "I can't say for sure. When Midas tried the diamond serum the first time, the concentration was stronger because of his inexperience with it, so none of the withdrawal stages lasted longer than two hours for him."

"Oh."

Artie removed the slide from the microscope and accidentally elbowed the pencil that he was writing with, knocking it to the floor.

Jim stepped forward to get it for him, just as Artie stepped off the stool to retrieve it himself. The pain chose that moment to strike Artie again, taking him by surprise, and, off balance, he dropped to his knees.

Artie gasped as the impact increased the pain. He clutched his chest with his right hand and hung his head, his left hand on the floor to brace himself.

Jim knelt beside him and quickly grabbed hold of his right arm, waiting for the pain to pass before he helped Artie up and sat him back on the stool.

Artie took a ragged breath. Seeing the bowl of water nearby, he dipped his hand in it and splashed the water over his hot face before reaching for the microscope again.

For another hour, Jim watched Artie try one combination after another, failing each time. As he got closer to stage four, Artie grew agitated, knowing that if he should fall unconscious, then Jim was doomed to suffer the full withdrawal effects also.

After another failed attempt, Artie felt like throwing something. He slapped his hand on the table, covering his eyes with his other hand.

Jim reached across the table and grabbed his arm. "Artie, calm down."

Artie shook his head. "Calm down?" He raised his head. "Jim, just because Midas survived doesn't mean that everyone would." The second the words left his lips; he closed his mouth and inwardly groaned, having not wanted to say that.

Jim nodded. "I know, I thought about that too."

Artie sighed. "I have to find the antidote, for _your_ sake." With that, he began again.

Jim let go of his arm, just as the pain decided to strike him. He noiselessly sucked in a breath and tried not to react, reaching up to scratch his head, in an effort to block his face.

Artie didn't notice, thankfully, too engrossed in his work.

Once five o'clock rolled around, Jim laid his head on his arms, hardly able to stay awake anymore. He'd never been one to need a lot of sleep, but the withdrawal was sapping at his strength. He had no idea how Artie was keeping himself together.

Artie was relieved when Jim fell asleep. He continued to work quietly, never stopping even when the words on the paper blurred, or he nearly fell asleep where he sat…not even when the heat radiating from his forehead felt like he had a terrible sunburn. He kept on, even when his hands started to shake and he nearly dropped his new batch.

He almost didn't stop even when he got the results that he wanted.

Shocked, Artie just stared, almost not able to believe it. His head was swimming with a lightheadedness that felt like his mind was detached from his body, and he frowned with confusion, the high fever affecting his comprehension. After blinking a few times, he realized that he'd done it, and he poured the mixture into two cups, before getting off the stool and heading to Jim's side…or rather, that's what he _tried_ to do. His legs buckled instead of holding him up, and his vision turned gray. Blinking against it, he grabbed the table and somehow got himself next to Jim, grabbing his arm and shaking it.

Jim woke immediately.

"Here," Artie said, practically pouring the concoction down his throat.

Jim took the cup and drank it.

Artie sighed with relief, before closing his eyes and slumping to the floor.

Jim leaped off his stool and knelt beside his friend. "Artie!" he exclaimed. "Artie, did you take the antidote yet?"

Artemus half opened his eyes. "No…"

Jim wasn't surprised at all that Artie had made sure that he'd gotten the antidote first. Standing, he saw the other cup on the table and grabbed it. Kneeling again, he slid an arm under Artie's shoulders, pulled him upright, and held the cup to his lips.

Artie drank it, slightly surprised at how tasteless it was. After Jim pulled the cup away, Artie tried to straighten up, but abruptly felt his muscles grow tense.

Jim was taken by surprise when Artie's entire body suddenly twitched. _Stage four,_ he realized. The diamond serum had taken effect in less than a minute, but Jim knew that it was unlikely for the antidote to work as quickly.

Artie was thinking the same thing, even as his body twitched a second time.

Jim pulled Artie's arm around his neck and hauled him off the floor, dragging him out of the lab and to his compartment, where he laid him on his bed.

Artie sighed with relief to feel the soft mattress under himself. He lay completely limp as Jim checked his fever, never hearing him leave the room and return a minute later with the bowl of water.

Jim rewet the towel and laid it across Artie's forehead. A drop of water splashed onto his cheek, and when he wiped it off, he was surprised to feel that his own face was hot. He'd gone into the third stage without realizing it.

Artie suddenly gasped when the pain struck again. He wrapped his arms around his chest and tried to curl up, but hadn't the strength. His body twitched, and he gasped again.

Jim reached forward and clasped his arm, taking the towel off Artie's forehead and patting it over his face before replacing it.

The tension slowly left Artie's body, and he lay limply again, breathing heavily. Suddenly, his head lolled to the side as he abruptly lost consciousness.

Jim reached forward and checked Artie's pulse, finding it racing. With a sigh, he rewet the cloth on his friend's forehead just as the pain decided to strike him. He was surprised when it only hurt half as much as before, and was relieved to see that the antidote worked quickly.

Looking at Artie, he sighed, wishing that he'd been able to discover it sooner.

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When Artie next opened his eyes, he was very confused. His chest felt sore and he was lightheaded. Reaching up to rub his eyes, he felt a cloth on his forehead and pulled it off, staring at it. Suddenly, realization struck, and he exclaimed, "Jim!"

Jim was asleep in the chair beside the bed, and jumped, startled. "What's wrong?"

Artie stared at him. "I did it?" he realized, seeing Jim looking fine.

Jim nodded. "Yes…you don't remember?"

Artie thought for a minute before sighing with relief. He recalled becoming so addled by the fever, that he'd nearly missed it when he'd finally combined the chemicals correctly. "That was close."

"Closer than you think. Five minutes later, you were unconscious."

"I reached stage four," Artie said. It wasn't a question…he remembered the twitching. He sighed again and closed his eyes, feeling weak.

"Take it easy," Jim said. "Your fever is gone and the antidote worked perfectly, but your body has still been through a lot and you need to recover."

"I'm just tired," Artie lied. He reopened his eyes. "How do _you_ feel?"

"Fine, just tired too." He sat back in his chair. "Go back to sleep, I'm sure you'll feel better when you wake up."

Jim was right. The next time they both woke, Jim was back to normal and Artie felt stronger. They were both starving, and even though Jim wanted Artie to stay in bed, he insisted on getting up. After they ate, they sat on the couch with some brandy.

"Jim," Artie suddenly said. "What are we going to write in our report? We can't let another person on earth know what can be done from burning a diamond." The thought of hundreds and eventually thousands of people using Midas' serum was staggering.

"I know," said Jim, with a sigh. "We can just say that we found the diamond thief, but he was killed before telling us how he did it."

Artie nodded. "At least we recovered some of the diamonds before Midas had a chance to burn them all."

Jim nodded back.

Artie suddenly realized something else. "The notes."

"Notes?"

"Midas' notes. We can't keep them…they have to be destroyed." He reached over to put his glass down, accepting Jim's hand up from the couch.

Jim followed Artie into the lab and watched as he gathered every paper and stuck them inside the book, frowning when Artie then headed towards the front of the train. "Where are you going?"

"There's only one way to do this right," Artie replied, opening the door.

Unsure of just how much strength Artie had regained, Jim rushed forward and grabbed his arm as they went through the door and outside the train car. The scenery rushed by them as they carefully stepped across to the next car and over to the furnace.

Jim kept one hand on Artie's arm and opened the furnace with the other, before making the 'after you' gesture.

Without a word, Artie threw the book inside, and they silently watched as the knowledge of the burning diamonds became nothing more than a pile of burning ashes.

THE END


	3. The Night of the Misplaced Memories

**The Night of the Misplaced Memories  
**A Wild Wild West story  
By Deana

I had all 4 of my wisdom teeth out yesterday...one of my lifelong worst fears, but wow am I in good shape! The recovery has been nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be...thank you, God!

This is a tag to the episode, 'The Night of the Howling Light'. I find it interesting that after Artie regained consciousness after Jim had to knock him out to prevent Artie from killing him under hypnosis, Artie couldn't remember what had happened, even though Jim remembered what HE did while hypnotized! Here's my explanation!

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Artie and Jim left the lighthouse, each of them finding their horses where they'd left them.

Artie mounted with difficulty, his body very sore, as if he'd been involved in a fight. The back of his neck in particular hurt the most, and he figured that's where the blow had been dealt that had rendered him unconscious. Wincing, he lifted a hand to rub it.

Jim watched him, feeling guilty for hitting him. "You all right?"

Artie sighed, turning his head both ways to loosen up his neck, and wincing again when his action only succeeded in increasing the pain. "Sure. I don't remember anyone hitting me, but I guess it's pretty obvious when you wake up lying on the floor!"

Jim said nothing, as they started riding away from the lighthouse.

Artie sighed. "I really wish I could remember what happened…I came here searching for you, but then there's nothing until I woke up, with you standing nearby. Where were you all this time? It's a good thing you showed up when you did, or whoever knocked me out might've killed me."

Jim inwardly flinched. What if things had gone differently, and he'd been forced to kill Artie in self-defense? No, he could never do that…he'd let Artie kill him first. He sighed at the terrible thought of Artie living with the guilt and horror of having killed him.

"Why are you so quiet?" Artie asked. "Are _you_ all right?"

Jim looked at him, trying to act normal. "Yeah, I'm fine, Artie…just wishing that I'd gotten there sooner."

"What happened to you, anyway?" Artie asked.

Jim sighed. "I was brainwashed into killing Chief Hotemi."

"What?!"

"I didn't, though," Jim said. "I resisted, and came out of it."

Artie sighed with relief. "Thank God…that would _not_ have gone over well in Washington."

Jim agreed.

They spent the ride with Jim explaining what had happened—most of it, anyway. He found it odd that he remembered everything that had happened while being hypnotized, yet Artie didn't remember anything. He wondered about that, hoping that he hadn't hit him _that_ hard, but didn't want to mention anything that would make Artie remember that he'd tried to kill him.

Once they reached the train, Artie all but stumbled over to the couch, plopping down on it tiredly. Jim knew that if they'd put Artie through the same conditioning that they'd done to him, then Artie's body must've been screaming for rest, especially considering that they used sleep deprivation to break their subjects.

He frowned when Artie rubbed the back of his neck again, and went over to him. "Let me see," he said, reaching down and pushing on his friend's back.

Artie obediently sat forward, displaying what was turning into a spectacular bruise.

Jim winced, feeling guilty again. "That's _definitely_ the wrong color. I'll get you some ice."

Artie sat back again. "Thanks."

When Jim came back, he found that Artie had fallen asleep, head tilted back against the back of the couch. Jim winced…that was definitely going to hurt. "Artie," he said, nudging his friend's arm.

"Humm?" Artie said, starting to lift his head, but halting with a wince.

Jim sighed. "It's late, time for bed."

Artie put a hand on the back of his neck before lifting his head, and he stood slowly, making his way down the hall to his compartment, with Jim behind him.

"Let me know when you're changed, and I'll bring you the ice," Jim said.

Artie wondered why Jim didn't just give it to him there, but he was too tired to ask. He mumbled an affirmative response, before going into his compartment.

Jim changed and put on his robe, waiting a couple of minutes before going back into the hall. "Artie?" he said, knocking on the door.

"Come in."

Jim went into the room to find Artie sitting on his bed, fighting with a pillow, trying to mash it into a shape that would be easiest on his neck. He noticed that there was a pouch of painkilling powder on the nightstand, and an empty glass that had obviously had water in it a short time ago.

Once Artie finished with the pillow, he held out his hand for the ice, eyes drooping with fatigue.

Jim made a face, wondering how Artie thought he would arrange it behind himself. "Lie down," he said.

Artie obeyed, lying on his side facing him.

Jim reached over and placed the towel of ice against the base of his neck. "How's that?"

Artie gave an involuntary gasp. "Cold!"

Jim smiled. "Very good, Artie," he said, reaching over again and pulling it away slightly. "Better?"

Artie closed his eyes, pulling the covers over his shoulder. "Um humm," he said. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Artie. Sleep well."

Artie gave no answer, already drifting off.

Jim watched his friend sleep for a few minutes, struck by thoughts of what could've happened.

With a relieved sigh, he eventually went to bed.

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"Jim!"

Startled awake by the shout, Jim sat up in his bed and leaped out, dashing into the hall and into Artie's compartment. He quickly turned up the gas on the lamp, and hurried to his friend's bed. "Artie, what is it?"

Artie's eyes were wide open and his hand was over his mouth, as if he were shocked about something. He looked at Jim and tried to quickly sit up, but winced and moved more slowly, pushing himself upright with his elbow. He stared at his friend for a minute, before closing his eyes and swallowing. "I tried to kill you," he said.

Jim sighed, having hoped that Artie would never remember.

"They brainwashed me too," Artie said, eyes still closed. "They wanted me to kill you…I resisted the conditioning, but they were relentless…and succeeded." He shook his head, even though it hurt. "I tried to _kill_ you!" he repeated, with agony in his voice.

"But you didn't."

"Only because you fought back," said Artie. He subconsciously raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry about that, Artie."

Artie opened his eyes. "Sorry? Don't be sorry, Jim! You shouldn't've held back," he said, remembering how the fight had begun…Jim had tried not to hurt him, even while Artie had tried to strangle him…

Artie looked down at his hands, before looking up at Jim and seeing faint marks around his neck. Sickened, Artie turned pale and put a hand over his face, lying back down.

Jim put a hand on his friend's arm in comfort.

Artie suddenly looked up, as more memories came flooding back. "I tried to shoot you! I shot at you twice with your own gun! How did I miss?"

Jim had wondered the same thing; Artie was an excellent shot, and should never have missed at that range. "I can only assume that you were resisting even then," said Jim. "You didn't _want_ to kill me, so you didn't."

Artie sighed, having no way of knowing if that was the truth.

They were silent for a minute, and Jim waited patiently in case Artie had more to say.

"When I woke up and saw you in the lighthouse, I had no memory of this," Artie said. "Nothing at all, until the dream that I just had. What I did was so terrible, that my mind obviously tried to repress it."

"I wish you'd _never_ remembered," said Jim.

Artie gave a deep sigh. "So do I." He sighed again. "I'm so sorry, Jim."

Jim shook his head. "Don't be, Artie. It wasn't your fault, I don't blame you at all."

Artie knew that his friend would say that. He sighed, closing his eyes.

Jim reached behind his friend and picked up the now-soggy towel. "How's it feel? Do you want more ice?

"Please," Artie answered.

Jim fetched it and returned, placing it against the back of his friend's neck again. "Need anything else?"

"No. Thanks, Jim."

"Anytime, Artie," Jim headed for the door, before turning again. "Don't dwell on what _could've_ happened…dwell on the fact that we're both here, alive and in one piece." He gestured towards Artie. "Well, more or less."

Artie smiled slightly at that one. "You're right, Jim. G'night."

"Night, Artie." Jim lowered the gas on the lamp, and left the room.

THE END


	4. The Night of the Impossible Quandary

**The Night of the Impossible Quandary**  
A Wild Wild West story  
By Deana

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Artie blinked, staring in shock at the giant figure of Voltaire looming over him. Confused, Artie wondered how he and Jim had come to be in Dr. Loveless' latest hideout, and why he didn't remember arriving.

"Surprise!" Voltaire exclaimed. Knowing that West was the more dangerous fighter of the two agents, Voltaire punched him in the face before they had a chance to react.

Artie reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. Before he could do anything else, Voltaire roughly grabbed his left wrist and flung him into the wall. Blackness instantly engulfed him, and he never felt himself hit the floor.

Voltaire laughed at the sight of the two unconscious agents, and he grabbed each of them by their jackets and dragged them out of the room.

Jim was the one who woke first, lifting his head with a wince. Opening his eyes, he found that his wrists were securely tied behind himself to the chair that he was sitting on, and that Artie was likewise tied up beside him. Artie was still unconscious, his head hanging forward, and Jim could see a bruise on his forehead. Concern gripped him and he wondered what Artie had been hit with, as Voltaire could kill with one blow. He was relieved to see that his friend was breathing steadily.

"Artie," he said, twisting his hands to try to unloosen the knots. "Artie, wake up, we gotta get out of here." He got no response, and continued to try getting free. After five minutes without an ounce of success, Jim took a break and tried to wake his friend again, hoping that his ropes weren't tied as tightly. "Artie," he said. "Wake up. Artie!"

He suddenly heard Artie groan, and watched as his friend shifted in his chair, with a wince on his face. "You all right?"

Artie gasped and squirmed, his eyes popping open. "No!" he exclaimed.

Jim frowned, alarmed. "What is it?"

"Voltaire broke my wrist! Get these ropes off me, Jim!" Artie answered, desperate.

Jim's eyes widened and he craned his neck to look behind Artie, seeing that the ropes around his wrists were tied just as tightly as his own.

Artie gasped again and continued to squirm.

Jim couldn't imagine the pain that his friend was in. "Loveless!" he shouted. "Loveless!"

In less than a minute, the door suddenly opened, and both of their enemies strolled in. "Well well well, how the mighty have fallen, Mr. West," Loveless said, with a grin. He looked at Artie, who was fighting to get loose. "Mr. Gordon, do calm yourself."

"Now's not the time for our usual word games, Loveless," Jim said. "Untie Artie; Voltaire broke his wrist!"

Loveless started to laugh. "Oh, Mr. West, that is the oldest trick in the book!"

"I'm serious," West said, sternly. "Look at him!"

Loveless chuckled for a few more seconds, until he noticed the sweat on Artie's face and his ragged breathing. He could tell that the expression of pain was not an act. "Voltaire," he said. "Put your hand around West's neck. If Gordon tries anything, snap it."

Voltaire obeyed, wrapping his huge hand around Jim's neck from behind.

Loveless walked behind Artie and worked at the knots, succeeding after a minute. He kept Artie's right wrist tied to the back of the chair, but let him pull his left arm forward.

Loveless walked back around to in front of his prisoner and took Artie's arm, the doctor in him trained to heal. "Well," he said. "It seems, Mr. Gordon, that in my quest to kill you, I accidentally injured you. How ironic!"

"Let go," Artie said.

Loveless frowned. "Do you not wish for me to set this for you?"

Artie squeezed his eyes shut against a flare of pain. "I meant Voltaire…"

"Oh!" said Loveless. "Yes, Voltaire, by all means, let Mr. West go."

Voltaire let go of Jim's neck and stepped back.

Loveless studied Artie's wrist, which had swelled. "This is a nasty break, Mr. Gordon. That should teach you not to tangle with Voltaire." With that, he gave a sudden twist.

Artie's entire body jerked in the chair, and he was unable to suppress a cry of pain.

"Voltaire," said Loveless. "Go find me something to use as a splint, and bring me the black bag on the table in my lab."

Voltaire nodded and left.

Jim watched, horrified, wondering how Artie felt letting Dr. Loveless, of all people, treat his injury.

Artie slumped in his chair, eyes closed tightly. His head was throbbing from hitting the wall, his wrist was in agony, and he couldn't believe that he was letting Dr. Loveless—their worst enemy—hold his broken wrist.

Voltaire came back a minute later with the bag and two small pieces of wood.

"Ah," said Loveless. "That should work, for now." He took one of the pieces of wood and placed it under Artie's wrist. "Hold this, Voltaire."

Voltaire placed his huge hand under the piece of wood, and Loveless put the other piece on top of Artie's hand before letting go, taking the bag and plopping it on Jim's lap before opening it and digging inside.

Jim didn't even care, unable to look away from the sight of Voltaire supporting the makeshift split that held Artie's broken wrist. He looked at Artie's pale face, to see him breathing heavily from the pain and looking nervous…understandable when Voltaire was concerned.

Loveless chuckled. "You look as if you're expecting us to take advantage of your friend's injury, and do him further harm. We're not all bad, Mr. West." With that, he took a roll of bandage out of his bag and started wrapping it around Artie's hand and wrist, ensuring that the pieces of wood stayed in place. After he finished, he gently took Artie's arm out of Voltaire's hand and laid it on the arm of the chair, before reaching into his bag and taking out a bottle of clear liquid and a syringe, quickly filling it.

"What's that?" Jim asked, instantly suspicious.

Loveless chuckled at his display of mistrust. "A harmless painkiller, Mr. West. Or do you really wish your friend to needlessly suffer the agonizing pain of a broken bone?" Before either of them could say anything more, he plunged the needle into Artie's arm.

Artie gasped, taken by surprise. Before he had a chance to pull away, Loveless yanked the needle out, put the cap back on, and dropped it into his bag. "There, was that so bad, Mr. Gordon? In a short while, you should start to feel better." Cruelly, he patted the splint.

Artie gasped again.

"Whoops," said Loveless. With that, he turned and left the room, with Voltaire following.

Artie painfully lifted his wrist off the arm of the chair and laid it on his lap, a wince seemingly permanent on his face.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked.

Artie gave a sarcastic laugh. "Oh sure, Loveless is such a wonderful doctor." His voice was strained, showing the amount of pain he was in.

"Do you think that was really a painkiller he gave you?" Jim asked.

"I don't know," Artie answered. In actuality, he doubted it.

Jim looked behind Artie's chair again. "Can you get your other hand free?"

Artie squirmed, and shook his head.

"Keep trying," Jim said, doing the same.

Neither of them had any luck, and Artie eventually stopped, with a groan.

"The pain's no better?" Jim asked.

"Not yet," Artie said. Suddenly, he started blinking, with a shocked look on his face. "Jim!" he exclaimed. "I can't see!"

"You _what_?!"

Artie kept blinking. "I can't see color! Everything is black and white!"

"Loveless!" Jim shouted, again.

The door opened immediately, as if their enemy had been just about to come in. "Yes, Mr. West?"

"Artie's gone colorblind," he said. "What did Voltaire hit him on the head with?"

"Colorblind? My my my," Loveless said, making a show of studying the bruise on Artie's forehead. "Voltaire didn't hit him with anything, Mr. West. Rather, he hit the wall with Mr. Gordon!"

Artie was staring at Loveless, in shock. He looked at Jim, and around the room before looking at Loveless again. "How did you do it?" he asked. Suddenly he closed his eyes, before reopening them and shaking his head. "This is impossible!"

"What is it?" Jim asked.

Artie looked at him. "Jim, everything is in black and white except for him!"

Jim frowned. "Everything except for Loveless? But that's—"

"Impossible!" Artie repeated.

Loveless giggled. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? No, Mr. Gordon, even though the slightly mismatched size of your pupils _does_ indicate a slight concussion, your sudden colorblindness is not from the head injury...it's a new serum I developed that I injected into you a short time ago! You are my first guinea pig!"

"But you're in color!" Artie exclaimed. "There's no possible way to make me see everything in black and white except for _you_!"

"And yet, what do you see before you, Mr. Gordon?" Loveless spread his hands out. "Everything in black and white except for me!" He started giggling again.

"But that defies the laws of...of...of _everything_!"

"Indeed it does," said Loveless. "You seem to be facing quite the impossible quandary. And now, it's time for you to leave."

"You're letting us go?" said Jim, shocked.

Loveless nodded. "The colorblindness is also highly contagious! Mr. Gordon will spread it throughout the country, and, desperate, the affected people will flock to me—the one thing that they can see in color—and I will rule them all!"

"We always knew that you were criminally insane," said Jim. "But we didn't realize that you were _mentally_ insane, too."

"Contagious?" Artie said, incredulous. "There's no way colorblindness can be contagious! There's no way to make a serum to make someone colorblind, either!"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Gordon," Loveless said again. "Breaking a bone causes quite a shock to the system, so you need to be quiet and still. Sit tight, and I will send Voltaire in to release you. Before you ask me, no, there is no antidote for the colorblindness...why would I want to cure my adoring followers? Oh!" he said. "I almost forgot." He pulled a piece of cloth out of his pocket, walked behind Artie, and tied it around his neck as a sling, before going back in front of him and settling his arm in it. "There. Until next time, gentlemen!" With that, he left.

Artie looked at Jim, his face easily displaying his despair. "This is impossible, Jim..._impossible_..."

"Take it easy," Jim said. "Maybe it really is from the head injury, and will heal. Loveless was probably just taking the opportunity to rattle us."

"So why is he letting us go?" Artie asked. "If you're right, then what _was_ the shot he gave me? The pain is no better."

Jim had no chance to try to answer that before the door opened and Voltaire came in. Saying nothing, he untied Artie first before untying Jim and, going back to Artie; he yanked him out of the chair and held his good arm tightly. "Try anything, Mr. West, and I'll break his _other_ wrist!" he said with a laugh.

"We'll cooperate," Jim said. "Just leave him alone, you've done enough."

Voltaire chuckled and pulled Artie along until they ended up outside.

Artie gasped when he saw the scenery. It was one thing to see furniture and things in black and white, but something entirely different to see trees and grass that way.

Black Jack and Mesa were standing outside, and Artie frowned, still not remembering arriving at this location in the first place. He looked up at his horse, realizing that mounting her would not be easy, when Voltaire suddenly grabbed him under the arms and lifted him as if he weighed nothing, plopping him onto his horse with a jolt and smacking the horse, making her bolt a few steps.

Jim ran forward and grabbed Mesa's bridle, stopping her. "Whoa, Mesa, easy, girl." He looked at Artie, who was tightly gripping the saddle horn, in obvious pain. "Artie, you all right? Artie?"

Eyes popping open, Artie gasped at the sight of Jim leaning over him, concern written in his blue eyes.

Blue eyes?

"Jim!" Artie exclaimed. "You're in color!" He tried to sit up, before realizing that he was lying in his bed on the train. Pain shot through his wrist, and he looked at it, to find it splinted and bandaged. "It really happened?" he said. "You were right, Jim."

Jim's eyebrows had shot up to his hairline in an incredulous expression that Artie hadn't often seen on his face. "I'm in _color_? I was right about what?"

Artie was happily looking around the room, immensely relieved to have his normal sight back, before looking at Jim again and seeing the confusion on his face. "What is it?"

"Artie, I don't know what you think happened," said Jim. "But I'll tell you what _did_ happen: we were being shot at and a bullet grazed Mesa. She threw you and you hit your head and broke your wrist. I got you back to the train, and a doctor has already treated you. He said that you'll be fine."

Artie just stared. "Are you telling me that I _dreamed_ that Dr. Loveless injected me with a contagious colorblind serum?"

Jim laughed. "Of course! You know that something like that is impossible!"

Artie nodded. "I said that repeatedly."

Jim shook his head, still smiling. "So how do you feel?"

"Better than I dreamed about," Artie told him. "I had the same injuries...my mind transferred the pain into my dream. Amazing."

"The doctor injected you with a painkiller," said Jim.

Artie laughed. "That's what Loveless claimed in the dream." He covered his eyes with his right hand. "Is Mesa all right?"

Jim nodded. "It was just a graze; the doctor took care of her too."

"Good." Artie yawned.

"Why don't you get some sleep," Jim said. "It's late. You'll feel better in the morning."

Artie nodded and settled deeper into the pillows. "Night, Jim."

"Night, Artie...try not to dream about Loveless again."

Artie chuckled. "I'd rather see him in a dream than in real life."

Jim frowned. "I'd rather not see him at _all_."

Artie chuckled again and closed his eyes, wondering when he and Jim would encounter Dr. Loveless again…and hoped that it wasn't too soon. As he drifted off to sleep, he could've sworn that he heard their nemesis laugh, and knew without doubt that they would cross paths with the evil genius again…and again…and again…

THE END


End file.

Wild Wild West, Drama, Friendship